


listen before i go

by legalcapabilities



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, Hurt No Comfort, Inspired by a Billie Eilish song, M/M, Self Harm, Songfic, Suicide Attempt, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-03-09 23:16:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18926974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legalcapabilities/pseuds/legalcapabilities
Summary: When the band is coming to an end, so is Paul, and his coping mechanisms may not be able to get him through anymore.





	1. take me to the rooftop

**Author's Note:**

> TW for suicidal themes and cutting in this chapter. you have been warned 
> 
> first, i mean absolutely no harm to the person im writing about in this fic. im really using paul’s character in the late 60’s as a vent for my own problems. 
> 
> AGAIN, please read the tags and be aware of what can trigger you

_take me to the rooftop_

His fingers turned numb from the cold, he can barely feel himself playing in unison with the other’s instruments. Here they were, The Beatles, playing their last concert in front of the everyone who dared the listen. It truly was the end.

 

He’s already heard the news that police are planning on shutting their little act down. He feels desperate to keep playing. To fill the void that had gaped in his stomach since they’d stopped touring. He’d been excited to take a break as well, but the lack of excitement in the band has lead to their inner peace getting replaced with an inside war; one in which they were all their own sides on the battlefront, their bitter words were like ammo piercing through each other’s skin. Just a little bit more, and then they’d be done.

 

Just hold on a little bit longer, and then they’ll be done. It’ll be over— they’ll truly have overstayed their welcome. He holds on a bit longer to the note he’s plucked on his bass, sending a look to John’s way and getting a smile in return.

 

Suddenly the air turns heavy, the light feeling dissipating. It’s suffocating.

 

_i wanna see the world when i stop breathing_

 

He finally understands why George didn’t wish to come up. The nervousness he’d barely even felt was now increasing to such an intensity that he can barely even breathe between singing. In one more song, they’d be over. No more performing.

 

Suddenly, he’s given the queue to start singing. John says something, but the blood is pounding in his ears much too loud for him to even comprehend it. Even though his vocal cords are singing something else, his mind is constantly repeating the same words over and over. The end. This is the end. The end. John told him previously he’d wanted out, but it didn’t register in his mind until the moment he’s singing their last song together in a concert.

 

Most of his life has been the band. He can barely remember a time where he wasn’t performing or playing an instrument for someone— even before he’d joined John’s band back in ‘57. He was the musical prodigy in their family, but without the group he’d built along with his musical talent, what would he be? Who would he be?

 

He certainly wouldn’t be ‘Beatle Paul McCartney’ anymore.

 

A quick glance downward to the crowd below the studios, to the people who saluted the group and are so blissfully unaware of their upcoming breakup, and he’s almost wishing he could join them down there. A mass group unaware of the unstoppable future.

 

Jumping doesn’t seem too terrible of an idea. There’s other ways to accomplish what he needs to get done, and perhaps, jumping is a little too messy to simply attempt to erase the feeling of impending doom.

_turning blue_

 

Jumping back into the verse, he takes a deep breath and almost doesn’t register that he’s even breathing at all. The songs almost done, he’s smiling and though his stomach is twisting with fear, he’s enjoying what time he’s got. He wishes it didn’t have to be over.

 

“Get back…” and with that, they’re done. They’re all smiling; it’s not as though they can help it. The rush of adrenaline is keeping their spirits higher than it usually would be.

 

There’s clapping surrounding him, both from the crew standing beside him and the fans huddled below him. The others are ushering themselves off the roof, much too ready to get out of the freezing, dry weather and make it back inside where they’d be warm, and not have to risk being arrested for holding their instruments on top of a building. Maureen cheers in the background and he says a simple thanks into the microphone. He hears John say something right before they start rushing off:

 

“I’d like to say thank you on behalf of the group and ourselves, and I hope we’ve passed the audition.” The others start laughing, and suddenly he’s laughing too, despite the fact that his numb fingers are clutching the neck of his bass so hard that pins and needles suddenly stab at his nerves.

 

As he’s preparing to get off, he almost runs into a cameraman, quickly apologizing and stepping past him to the stairs.

 

It’s over. That was their last concert together. There’s no way he’s going to be able to convince them to get back to touring small pubs, now. Anxiety roots deep in his chest, stopping him in his own tracks before he’s even begun to walk in the opposite direction of his bandmates. Despite just creating history, he can’t bare to look them in the eye.

 

Yoko and Maureen stand not too far back, but he barely notices them, for his full attention is now focused on the conversation his bandmates are having. He overhears some of the words said, and suddenly, he doesn’t want to talk to them.

 

His eyes are back to trailing to Yoko and Maureen. He thinks about when he was in her position. Before he’d given everything away due to his own judgement and had been tossed aside like a dirty rag.

 

_tell me love is endless_

 

John calls his name just as he’s turning to finally get away from them. He supposes he’s got this dumb sort of look on his face, confusion perhaps, for John mimics it and laughs. “Well, what’re we gonna do now?” He asks, and for some reason, Paul can barely put an answer together for a moment.

 

Finally, he shrugs. “Guess we have to record another album.”

 

He earns a smirk from the others and a nod from Ringo. “It’ll get us back into doing something at least- something that isn’t playing in the freezing cold weather.” Paul notices that he’s still wearing the article of clothing that Maureen had given him because he was too cold. His own shoulders sag but he doesn’t let the rest of his emotion show.

 

“It doesn’t have to be a rooftop, y’know?” He says before he can stop himself. It doesn’t spark their interest, especially considering how much it had taken to convince them to go up there in the first place. “We could- we could go somewhere else. There’s plenty of places that would-“

 

The rough sound of John scoffing quickly shuts him down. He internally, and possibly externally, cringes at hearing it, knowing he’s just made the situation awkward and tense. “Haven’t we told you? We aren’t doing’ any more bloody tours!” John argues, crossing his arms. Yoko’s gotten closer now, suddenly stiff beside him as if she’s some sort of guard dog prepared to attack.

 

His throat feels dry but he doesn’t swallow. “Yeah, I- okay.” His gaze drops and now the conversation is awkward. The air feels thick with tension- again, it’s his fault for even bringing it up. His fault for dragging it on this long.

 

Ringo sighs. “Do we have to have this conversation right now?” He doesn’t sound particularly angry, but there is agitation laced in his tone. “Can we go three minutes without fighting over something?”

 

Now it was even more awkward. Paul wanted to refute his statement, but only knew that it would further prove Ringo’s point. “I’m just saying! He keeps trying to push this damn band on as if we’ve got anything left to give!” John argues instead, crossing his arms. Ringo seems disappointed, as if he’d expected John to actually back off for once.

 

“We’ve got an album to give.” George states. They’re not arguing, but Paul notices that John still seems on the defense. “Another album full of shitty love songs by him-“ John hisses, pointing to Paul, “and more equally unimpressive songs by you two.” Now, he turns to George and Ringo, his tone laced with blame as if he was putting the responsibility of every song they ever failed on their shoulders.

 

_don't be so pretentious_

 

“You’re being such a pretentious cunt.” Paul says in return, though he was sure he’d kept that one to himself. The room is silent for a moment. John’s silent and rigid, standing a few feet from them, excluded from the pack.

 

Finally, after a moment, just as the emotion in the air was beginning to get so dense that they couldn’t breathe (or perhaps that was the panic. Panic? Why was he panicking?) John’s expression changed. George and Ringo seemed fine, leaving Paul the only one who was surprised by John’s movement. Then, the older man shrugs. 

 

“Pretentious, sure, but I’m right.” John then pulls a smirk, locking his gaze with Paul’s, but the latter quickly averts his gaze. The pent up anger hidden behind George and Ringo’s facades didn’t seem to wish coming out and defending themselves, again leaving Paul stood out in the open. If he says anything against John, no one will be there to back his claims up. If he supports John, he’s got two more people that’ll be angry at him, both of which have, most likely given up on having a say in the matter anyway.

 

Instead, he keeps his gaze averted and let’s go of a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding. “Okay.” He murmurs, going to scratch at one of his wrists, before remembering why they were itching, and taking his hand away immediately. It would only be worse by that night; he could feel the sensation itching in his arm and it was almost unbearable.

 

John nods, as if he’s got some reason to. “Well, Yoko and I’ve gotta head out. Nothing else to do ‘cept write, I suppose. See you guys later.”

 

As he’s leaving the studio, the others finally decide to speak up. “Yeah, ‘see you guys later.’” George mocks, rolling his eyes. “Wonder how long it’ll take for any of us to show up at the studio this time.” Until one of them had a song actually good enough to record, is what he means, but Paul knows he’s not going to say it.

 

_leave  me_

 

He hears a door close from not too far away. It’s official, John’s left the studio and Paul doesn’t know of the next time he’s going to catch of a glimpse of him. He doesn’t realize his own hands are shaking with the frustration of having such a nice day ruined— the only nice day he’d had in a good fucking while, ruined. Ringo is saying something in response to George, but Paul selectively tunes him out.

 

No need for him to contribute to the conversation. No need for him to contribute to anything. His ‘shitty love songs’ weren’t going to get them anywhere, and neither were his controlling tendencies and awful attitude and awful _everything-_

 

“I mean, we won’t get anything done for the rest of the day. Might as well go.” Ringo suggests, and suddenly there’s a hand on Paul’s back, trailing off as Ringo begins walking away. “I’ll see you when I see you!” His optimism is a stark contrast to John’s pessimistic way of dramatically exiting a conversation. Paul’s thankful for it.

 

Now he’s alone with George, but not for long. “I’m heading out.” George says blankly, gaze aimed downwards and arms crossed. Paul can’t tell if he’s heading out till their next studio session or if it’s forever; he wouldn’t put it past him, he truly wouldn’t.

 

When was the last time he was alone in the studio? Alone, meaning no bandmates there to converse with him, discuss songs and memories and… everything, with him. He was in the middle of a bustling camera and production crew, excitedly talking and complimenting him as they passed him on his playing.

 

This hasn’t happened in years.

 

_like you do_

 

After saying goodbye to George Martin, Mal, Neill and Billy Preston, he heads home. And when he’s finally home, he’s gone.

 

Linda greets him as she usually does, but he brushes her aside, guilt wracking in his chest but remorse and sadness overwhelming all of his senses. Instead of turning to her, like he should, he grabs some whiskey from the cabinet and locks himself in the music room. Alone. With his whisky, piano, and a razor.

 

By the time he’s staring down the mouth of a bottle, he’s beginning to remember the situation that got him in such a depressed state. It was not one instance of an argument, but an accumulation of fights that left a new scar on his emotional state every time his ears hurt from someone else’s voice.

 

He stares at his razor. He only used it the last time John had left him high and dry. That was quite a usual occurrence; but he puts it down anyway, picks up a pencil, and begins writing.

 

_if you need me, wanna see me_

 

He stares at his shaky handwriting, attempting to take a deep breath and calm himself down. This wasn’t the time to be doing this. No, it was the perfect time. They could record an album without him. He drops the pencil, putting his head in his hands and biting his lip.

 

Unconsciously, his left hand grasps the bottle again, which was strangely placed right next to the razor. He took a sip, finishing off the disgusting liquid and dropping the bottle to the ground. It shatters instantly, the sound burning his ears.

 

The razor sitting atop the piano mocks him, laughs at him, sneers at him until he finally picks it up, examining its sharp edge and stained, cool metal. Before he can do something he regrets, the anxiety pulsing in his blood forces him back to writing his feelings out, trying to get him to think over his actions. To stop over analyzing, and to stop thinking all together.

 

He can’t just leave without a goodbye. There’s a phone in the other room, but perhaps he should call when he’s not as drunk as he is. Perhaps he’ll do it when he’s taken the time to actually think about whether he should go through with his plan.

 

Who would it affect? Well, surely Linda and Heather. Ringo, George, George Martin, Mal, Neill, his dad, step mom, step sister, his brother.

 

John.

 

‘Well, actually’, he thinks, if John hadn’t disregarded him yet, then why does he bother to take the time to insult him, and degrade his songs whenever he’s given the chance? He’s basically asking for it to happen.

 

_better hurry 'cause i’m leaving soon_

 

The razor helps remind him that it’s not anyone else’s fault that he feels the way he feels. That their actions are justified; every word, every insult thrown his way is because he deserves it, and the blood that wells up in the first cut is the only thing that reminds him why he’s still there.

 

He’s just about ruined his own body, his right wrist is covered with old and new scars that range in date from 1967 to the one freshly dripping down his pale, stained skin.

 

Someday, this is going to be the death of him, and at the rate of which his mental state is deteriorating, he can’t help but feel like it’s going to be soon. He’s hacked at every place he can, from the highest part on his arm he feels safe going, to the small one near the bottom of his thumb. His fingers idly trace the first scar, one so faded that he can barely remember which one it is among the myriad of other much deeper and darker ones.

 

There’s a knock on the door, suddenly, and he’s scrambling to pull his sleeve down despite the fact that there’s still blood dripping from the most recent cut. The fabric of his shirt catches against the wound, causing a stinging pain that hurts in more than just a physical way.

 

It’s Heather, standing there looking at him softly with a warm glow on her cheeks. “Mommy said someone called you.” She speaks in her little squeaky voice, attempting to peek around Paul as she’s saying it. He doesn’t want her to see the broken glass, so he shuts the door quickly. “I’ll go take that then, why don’t you play with Martha?” He asks to distract her from trying to peek past him.

 

Excitement jumps behind her eyes and she’s off running to find the shaggy haired dog; Paul breathes a sigh of relief.

 

On the way to the phone, he stops in the bathroom and grabs some tissue paper to wad against the cut just in case it bleeds more than it already is. There’s no point in bandaging it, he’s only gonna be back on it later that night.

 

When he sees Linda, she gives him a sad look, her eyes trailing down to his arm. She knows he’s been doing it, she’s been aware since she saw him again in New York. “Won’t you let me clean it up this time?” She asks, her hand over the part on the phone with the listening device. He sighs and shakes his head. “Maybe later, Lin.”

 

She seems hesitant to hand the phone over, her eyes slightly wide and bewildered. “Fine.” She hands him the phone, quickly ushering out of the room as to not smell the scent of alcohol wafting around. He feels guilty, but still doesn’t bother fixing his faults.

 

“Hello?” He slurs into the phone, a little upset that his drunkenness was obvious to the other person listening. “Hey, Paul…” it’s John’s voice, quiet yet accusing as usual. Paul swallows thickly, humming in response. “Hi.” He says blatantly.

 

In the awkward moment of silence, Paul wants to say something about earlier that day. Or- about why John had called him in the first place. “I just uh-“ Paul can tell he’s a little nervous saying it, trying to force it out. “I’m sorry for what I said, you, George and Ringo aren’t bad songwriters.”

 

He blinks and the words repeat in his mind again. He apologized?

 

_sorry can't save me now_

 

He searches for a response to the apology, mouth hung open in an astonished look. John doesn’t usually apologize when he’s the wrong, so Paul naturally is thrown for a loop. He wishes he could just tell him that it doesn’t matter now because he can’t bring himself to believe him, but he knows it’ll only make things worse if he does. Hesitantly, he smiles as if John saw him frowning in response.

 

A response is just on the tip of his tongue, but he knows John won’t take it the way he wants him to. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.” Though contradictory, he knew it was the best course of action to take. He hears John take a deep breath on the other side, contemplating what to say next.

 

“Really, I didn’t. I just said it because you said that thing about touring again.” John answers. Paul hums in response, sort of wishing John hadn’t said that so he didn’t have to remember the feeling of something deep inside him dying when he was shot down. His mind is racing, telling him to argue with John to finally get him to agree, that it would save the band and all they had to do was just bring back part of their old image.

 

But alas, the smarter part of his mind urged strongly against it, bringing him to just sigh. “You’re right. It’ll never happen. I’m sorry.” Instead of hearing the normal, calm response he’d expected, John instead responds with an upset tone in his voice.

 

“Why do you always do that?” The older man asks, and Paul can feel his annoyance through the phone.

 

He stands there, phone to his ear, harboring a very puzzled look. “Do what?” Had he done something wrong? He must have, for although John was spontaneous and easy to anger, he wasn’t irrational. “You always try to guilt trip me, I don’t get it. I’m not gonna do what you want just because you whine about it.”

 

“How am I guilt-tripping you?!” Paul inquires, his breathing getting faster. He was beginning to feel a little anxious- no, very anxious. Confusion plagues all of his thoughts, sending his mind into a frenzy on figuring out how he’d suddenly become more worse of a person than he thought he was.

 

John starts speaking again, and Paul is barely even able to hear over his own thoughts. “You do it all the time. By saying ‘oh it’ll never happen’ makes me think you want pity!” John’s obviously getting more upset by the minute, and usually Paul is able to stop it from getting out of control; but, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to this time. “But I don’t.”

 

There’s a sound from over the phone, Paul can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a snort. “Then stop acting like you do! Maybe if you finally come to understand-“ (he’s saying this part slowly, as if Paul is some sort of child) “-that we’re practically done, you’d stop doing it!”

 

_sorry i don't know how_

 

He supposes he can’t respond with an apology- because apparently, that’s guilt tripping. “Okay.” He squeaks, hating how his voice almost cracks. He almost feels sober all of a sudden, the impact of John’s words slapping the inebriation out of him.

 

“I’ll try and stop, then.” He adds quietly. The tension in the air, despite it being a phone call and not actually seeing John face to face, feels thick, but slowly dissipating. “Okay, glad you realize it. I’ll see you next time I see you, then.” John quickly hangs up the phone before Paul even has the chance to say goodbye.

 

Paul slowly places the phone back down. He knows Linda is in the other room. If he needs help, if he needs a distraction, he should go to her instead of resuming his previous activity. Yet, going to her and talking to her about what’s wrong would only shift the burden of his problems onto her as well, and he didn’t want to make her upset.

 

So, he finds himself back in the music room, contemplating whether his eyes should be fixated on the piano in front of him or the razor in his left hand. Back once again, whether it be for comfort or for revenge, he didn’t know.

 

Guilt-tripping. Why was he so fucking selfish? How could he not have realized another one of his many flaws that made others despise him?

 

Before he could even bring the razor to his skin, the sudden realization of just how much he’d done it dawns on him. The fresh cuts he’d made previously made his skin red and raw, and wherever the fresh cuts aren’t, an old one is taking its place. He switches hands with the razor, only to find himself doubting his ability to even cut into the other wrist. He’d done it before, why was he unable to now?

 

_sorry there's no way out (sorry)_

 

It’s back in his dominant hand again.

 

There was no where else to cut, unless he wishes to start on his legs, or his hip; he’d heard of a bird that used to do that. “Easier to hide.” She’d told him. “Unless you’re having sex, which, I’d say, blame it on an animal.”

 

He wishes he had taken her advice, because now he’s got scars on one of the most obvious parts of his body. He’d fucked it up so, so bad. He couldn’t even hurt himself correctly. He supposes doing it incorrectly may actually be what he deserves.

 

But now there was no more room, or, no more areas he’d feel comfortable cutting. No where to cut-

 

_but down_

 

That would certainly put an end to his problems.

 

_hmm, down_

 


	2. taste me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter goes more into talking about an actual method of suicide, so please be aware of that in case it is triggering to you! 
> 
> no harm is intended to the people being used in this fic 
> 
> if u wanna contact me somewhere else, visit my tumblr @cartoon-beatles

_ taste me, these salty tears on my cheeks _

 

The tile floor of the bathroom looks much less complex when his eyes are clouded with thick tears, threatening to fall at any moment. It is the 22 of February, the first day they’re back recording in the studio, and Paul is barely even able to keep his stature upright as he’s trying to prevent the tears falling from his eyes. 

 

He sits on the toilet, hands to his face and just about gasping for breath as anxiety attacks him in wave after wave. He feels sick, his stomach is churning with panic and thousands of other emotions he can’t explain, and his mind is reeling with the thoughts of his previous escape from his bandmates. Why did he have to be so fucking dramatic? Couldn’t he have waited to freak out over John’s song like any normal person would have?

 

The song was swirling, repeating in his mind, and if John hadn’t already suggested it have a much heavier sound, Paul would have figured it suited it, with the way his heart was beating so heavily in accompaniment to the lyrics echoing in his head. He’d heard this song before, they’d gone over it before, Paul just didn’t expect John to bring it back. 

 

Perhaps it wasn’t the lyrics of the songs that were making him feel more and more useless to the one man he’d loved (possibly ever will love), but instead the time frame in which John brought the song up as as to serenade Yoko. 

 

It had been a year ago that they were in India. One year ago, not exactly the same day, that John and Paul talked. For real, about their relationship. He could still remember the smell of grass and the feeling of the sun bearing down on his skin when John had approached him that calm day, harboring a solemn and guilty look. 

 

John’s soft voice and Paul’s look glazed over as they finally established it was over continued as a fresh memory in his mind. It was making his head pound just thinking about it.

 

_ that’s what a year-long headache does to you _   
  


It felt impossible to stop the tears now that they’d found a nice, constant rate at which to flow at; one that clouded his vision and stung his eyes with every welling of another teardrop. He knows if someone else comes into the bathroom that they’d be able to hear him crying. After all, despite his efforts to calm himself down, he’d dissolved into a sobbing fit just after the first tear had dropped down his cheek. 

The thing he finds the most saddening about his situation is that John doesn’t even seem to realize the significance behind the month. Now that he thinks about it, people mainly try and forget their falling outs, not remember the anniversary of them. 

Unfortunately, or fortunately in someone else’s eyes, the sound of the door in the bathroom suddenly squeaking open startles him out of his thoughts, prompting him to involuntarily attempt to scramble away from the noise and suddenly hit the back of his head against the wall. “Ow,” he mutters, voice weak and painfully wretched from the crying. 

Footsteps echo through the bathroom in search of a stall. Paul silently prays that it’s just some of the production crew who had to use the bathroom, and certainly not someone who’d come looking for him. He wonders how long he’s been out out of the studio for. Shoes clunk around until they’re standing in front of his stall, and for a brief moment, Paul wonders if he could escape somehow. 

“Uh, Paul? Are you in here?” A deep, soft voice asks from only a few feet in front of him. Despite the blood pounding in his ears, he could tell from the distinguishable low tone that it was Ringo coming to check on him. Paul feels confined in his tight space, having brought his knees up to his chest as to convey that no one was in the stall. 

His attempt is not planned out very well, for he forgets to consider his own heavy, rattling breaths and that he’d just, very loudly, smashed his head in the wall by accident. 

The bathroom is near silent in the moments that he’s not responding, save for the sound of the heating humming throughout the building. If he doesn’t respond, then perhaps Ringo will leave, or assume he’s just using the bathroom, and not tell anyone anything. Of course, he’d have to be hysterical to conclude that Ringo of all people would quickly give up on helping one of his mates out, for there’s never been in a moment in Paul’s life where Ringo hasn’t willingly been there for him when he needed it. 

Finally, he clears his throat, humming softly afterwards to make sure he still has a voice. “Yes.” He answers softly, knees still tucked to his chest in case Ringo bothered to see if any feet were in the stall. He hears the drummer breathe a sigh of relief; he can’t understand why he would, Paul is nothing to be worried about these days. 

“Oh good. I thought you’d left or something. Are you okay?” Ringo asks in a worried voice.

 

_ im not okay, i feel so scattered _

Is he okay? Has he ever been truly okay? Maybe once in his life, before his own arrogance and selfishness ruined it for him. God, it was all his fault. His fault John left, his fault he was replaced so easily, his fault he had put himself into a position where people wanted to leave him. 

“I’m uh- I’m alright.” He forces out, despite his mind begging him to just admit to Ringo that he was suffering some sort of anxiety attack just from the date alone, not to mention the song John had brought up again. 

There’s another moment of silence that Paul isn’t even aware of before Ringo finally finds an answer. “You don’t sound alright? Are you sick?” 

He’s sick, alright. A few minutes earlier he’d felt so physically sick that being in the bathroom was the perfect place, but now he’s unable to concentrate on how his body feels, for his mind is bothering him with more pressing issues. His head is still pounding with the weight of a year's worth of memories flooded with feelings of rejection and worthlessness coming back to him in a moment. 

The question still lingers in his mind despite him having pushed it back. Should he tell Ringo about what’s happening? He’s thought about seeking help before, figuring he’d be able to eventually get over his depression, but finally concluded that he’d just burden them instead. 

“I’ve just got a headache.” Another chance of getting better thrown out the window. He doesn’t really deserve the chance anyway, he’s a lost cause at this point. With all the researching he’s done, with all that he’s already done to himself, he should just finally take the hint he’d given himself. He isn’t brought back into his thoughts until a moment later, when Ringo is just speaking. 

“Oh that doesn’t sound good. I’m sure we have medicine somewhere laying around.” Ringo speaks as though he’s talking to himself, but Paul knows it’s just a tactic to try and get him out of the stall. Why would they have medicine in a recording studio? 

There’s more shuffling outside the stall. Paul can’t tell if Ringo wants him to come out or take his time; he doesn’t really want to come out anyway, he hasn’t seen what he looks like yet. “Well come on, don’t you want something to help with that headache?” Ringo asks, but Paul really would just rather sit and suffer than face the drummer with the state he was in. 

Still, hesitantly, he lowers his feet to the ground and stands on shaky knees, staring down at the lock and contemplating if he should wait till Ringo’s gone. 

Ringo is waiting for him only a few feet in front of the stall, his bright eyes not giving any hints to how he truly feels when he sees Paul emerge from the stall. Paul doesn’t even know how he looks until he’s sliding past Ringo and to the sinks to splash water on his face. His eyes are puffy, cheeks red and wet from the tears and there’s a distinctive red mark on his bottom lip where he must’ve bitten it too hard. 

He turns back to Ringo after attempting to dry his face off and silently thanks whatever higher being there is that Ringo’s considerate enough to not pressure Paul to talk about why he looks like he’s been through hell and back. “Don’t we need to get back to recording?” He asks, clearing his throat afterward to rid it of the scratchiness.

 

“I think we’ll discuss John’s song when we’re done fixing you up. Your health matters a little more right now.” Ringo softly grabs one of Paul’s hands comfortingly, but instead it causes the younger man to suddenly tense up and pull his hand back. 

Where had he heard that before? Had he heard it before, or just some twisted variation on it?

 

_ don’t say im all that matters _

He rubs self-consciously at his wrist where Ringo’s thumb had landed, averting his gaze with the fear that his secret would somehow be told through eye-contact. He can feel Ringo’s gaze on his arm, but he drops it quickly to his side as to try and change the subject. “Not really- I’m fine. Seriously, I just need some water or something.”

Perhaps he was trying to play at the idea that he’d become dehydrated after so much crying, but Ringo seemed unconvinced, yet hesitant to say anything. “Okay. We’ll get you water then.” Ringo suggests, and suddenly is beginning to leave the bathroom. 

Paul doesn’t think he’s steady enough to leave the bathroom. Walking outside and seeing John was just a recipe for disaster, and if the obvious fact that he’d been crying wasn’t enough, then the fact that he was most likely going to start again upon hearing the song topped the cake. 

Ringo looks back to see if Paul is following him. Why does he bother to care, anyway? All uses of his sympathy and compassion would soon be discarded as they’d mean nothing when Paul’s finally not there to experience it. He shivers thinking about that again, wishing he could just accept the others willingness to help him instead of pushing it away to the point of where it got blatantly destructive to his mental health (he thinks that at this point anyway, he’s too far gone to save. Might as well make Ringo think he’s helping somewhat)

It’s obvious Ringo had been just trying to coax him out for once he’s back in the studio, nothing is there waiting for him except the accusing stares of John and George. He stares back a little longer than he should have, for both of them quickly return to their previous activity and he’s left wondering what he should be doing. 

Soon enough, they get back into the rhythm of the studio, like they usually do. They’re in there for hours, recording, discussing the songs and just talking about their lives. It’s unusually calm after his breakdown in the bathroom, he almost wonders if things have gone back to normal.  

That is, until they’re wrapping up, and John turns to look at him from across the room. 

They lock eyes, Paul smiles (though it feels like something inside him is shattering and stabbing his chest a million times)  and John returns it, then turns back to Yoko

 

_ leave me _

Was there a reason behind the random and sudden locking of eyes between the two? Paul knows he’s going to render himself completely useless to the rest of the world as he ponders it later that night. He shakes his head and grabs his jacket, feeling for his keys. He’s got some place to check out tonight, just to test the waters. 

George says a quick goodbye to him, as short and silent as usual before he’s quickly out of the studio. As Paul watches him leave, he wonders if the younger man has ever dealt with his own inner demons wishing death upon him every hour of every day. Someone notices him staring; he turns his head. Perhaps not, then. 

Ringo’s hand trails on his back as he begins to leave as well. It’s unusual for the other two to leave before John does, considering he’s usually the first out of the studio, but Paul assumes he’s just excited to get his song out there. 

“I wasn’t gonna bring it up again, or ask you, really, but…” Ringo starts, stepping in front of Paul before he begins his exit, as if blocking him in to get an answer out as soon as possible. “Is everything okay? Are you sure you just had a headache this morning? You looked a little rough.”

Leave it to the drummer to notice something's wrong. ‘Yes,’ he thinks of telling him. ‘I’ve actually been trying to find a way out of this hell life I live in, but continue.’ Instead, he just nods in response to the first question. “It was more of a migraine, I guess, then. Just wasn’t feeling well is all.” Again, Ringo’s eyes trail downwards to his arms and Paul quickly crosses them as to block his view of anything. 

After a moment of silence, Ringo looks up and smiles. “Oh if you’re sure, I’ll leave you to it then!” He adds in a small chuckle afterwards as to lighten up the mood, but Paul’s slightly somber expression doesn’t change. 

He feels someone’s eyes burning in the back of his head and turns sharply to see John staring once again. This time, he’s turned completely away from Yoko, expressionless look on his face and a stressed glare in his eyes. Has he realized the date now? Does he understand the significance?

He’s turning his head back again, and Paul almost feels like he’s back in India, watching as every time he tried to talk to the older man he’d awkwardly turn his head upwards to stare at the clouds. Then, he’d go on to talk about how Yoko told him to think of her in every cloud, and Paul feels a little sicker thinking about how he’d thought back then, that she’d be a simple fling like the rest of them. 

Now she’s in the studio every day.

 

_ déjà vu _

 

When he gets outside, he looks to the darkening clouds above and tries to think of Linda but instead thinks of John. The picture of his beautiful wife is fresh in his mind but holds no comparison to the man he’s loved for so long. For, what had it been, 5 years until they’d broken it off?

Most of his time with the band had been of him sharing a room with John, spending time with John, writing songs with John… being in love with John. His life feels meaningless without the band, and now especially without his relationship with John. 

He tries to think of Linda again, and how much he truly loves her. She’s such a good person compared to how John treated him sometimes. She doesn’t take drugs, she rarely drinks, she’s a vegetarian for Christ’s sake, she cares about everything around her. 

And yet, she’s not the one he thinks of when he hears the word love. He hates himself for it. Truly despises himself. He’s married a woman who’s been there for him through so much drinking and so many self-destructive times;  but still, he can’t bring himself to allow her to take John’s place in his heart. God, he’s such a terrible person. Good for nothing, can’t even treat his wife with the respect she so rightfully deserves. Maybe that’s why John left him. He only thinks of himself. 

He jerks his car door open and slams it shut once he’s in, putting his head in his hands and trying to ward off his second breakdown of the day. His engine starts loudly, biting sharply into his now pounding head. 

Some part of him begs him to drive home and deal with it there. Don’t do something stupid. 

  
  


_ if you need me, wanna see me _

He drives to the pharmacy. His hands are shaking wildly as he reads the descriptions of sleeping pills as he scans down the rows of medicines. Which one is the best to take to help fall asleep… for the longest time? 5mg to 10mg is all he reads. Perhaps he need a prescription. 

Something tugs at his arm. He turns sharply and sees a young man with a curious and bright look in his eyes. He obviously works at the store, for there’s a patch on his shirt that says the store brand. “Can I assist you in what you’re looking for?” The man asks, voice hinted with excitement. There’s some other customers in the store, and he knows no other employees have gone out of their way to help them. Paul looks to the bottle in his hands, and then back to the employee. 

“Sleeping pills. Which ones are the best?” He asks a little roughly, stepping out of the way as to let the employee see what he’s talking about. The employee hums and quickly grabs a bottle, scans the back of it, and hands it to Paul. 

There’s a warm smile on his face, as if he’d never thought he’d find himself in such an interesting situation. “These will help the best, if you’re looking for a pill to help with a heavy sleep, I mean.” He suggests, and takes the other pill bottles Paul had in his hands and places them back. As he’s doing that, Paul begins reading into the new bottle he was given, but stops as he feels the eyes of someone else burning into his back. He needs to get out before other people start asking him questions. Sometimes he wishes he’d never even become such an influencer, then he wouldn’t be pulled aside in public all the time. 

Or have been through 5 years of a relationship with someone. He takes a deep breath. 

“I need to check out now.” He says quickly, and the employee hastily takes notice of his urgency and makes his way to the counter. “Is that all you’re getting?” He asks, and Paul nods, now taking the time to read the employee’s name.

Michael. Michael. Oh god, his brother’s name is Michael. His brother that he hasn’t talked to in more than a few months, who would be too devastated to even hear that his older brother had left him without a goodbye. He can feel himself getting frantic soon, trying to buy more time before he knows he’ll eventually have to call his family and have a chat with them. 

He needs to settle his differences before he’s on his way out, tell Michael he loves him. Give him a guitar or something; he did always love watching Paul play. Followed him around like a dog, he did. The employee is handing him the checkout bag, and Paul doesn’t even realize he’s just already paid for it. He must’ve gone pale in the last few minutes, for now the employee is giving him an awkward stare and his hands are beginning to feel clammy. 

“Have a nice night.” He tells Michael, and he’s told it in return. Someone says something behind him but he tries to block out their voice. He doesn’t need to be hearing anymore rumors about himself, especially not now.

 

_ you better hurry, i'm leaving soon _

The phone rings a few times before the familiar sound of someone picking up on the other end finally sounds through the speaker. Paul’s heart is beating frantically, and he barely hears himself say hello through the blood pounding in his ears. “Oh! Hi Paul.” Michael’s voice is clear and happy, much too familiar for someone he hasn’t called in a while. 

His mouth is dry. “Hi Mikey, how are you doing?” He asks quietly, curling the phone closer to his ear and leaning against the wall. Michael’s saying something back, Paul hums in certain places to let him know he’s listening, despite it being hard through the millions of thoughts in his head. “I’m doing fine, just fine.” He answers in response to Michael asking him the same thing.

Michael is just beginning to say something else when Paul cuts him off quickly. “Hey- you know that old guitar I used to play all the time?” He says quickly, biting his lip in anticipation to Michael’s response. 

“Oh, yeah! The one mum got you?” Michael says, and Paul nods despite knowing Michael can’t see him. “Yes that one- um-“ he’s taking a moment to try and recuperate his thoughts, to try and talk himself out of doing something he’ll regret later. 

No, no. There will be no later for him to regret. He needs to get it done now. “Well, I want you to have it”. His voice comes out much too watery than he’d like, but not enough for Michael to notice anything is wrong. Paul can tell his little brother is contemplating what he’d just said. That guitar has been something special to him since his mother died, it was no wonder Michael was taking a moment to formulate a response. 

Finally, Paul hears someone’s breath hitching on the other side. “What? You love that guitar. Why would you give it to me?” 

How is he supposed to answer that question? ‘Sorry Mikey, I’m giving you the guitar because I won’t be here to play it anymore?’ or, perhaps ‘You know, it’s gonna hold much more meaning to you than it does to me when you’ve dealt with the death of two family members.’

“I think you’d play it more than I do, now that I’ve got so many guitars.” He laughs dryly, his chest contracting as he stifles the sudden wave of emotion threatening to push him over the edge. “Um.” Is all Michael says in response. Paul doesn’t know if he should say something else or wait for Michael to fill the silence with another answer. He’s hoping he doesn’t have to keep lying. He can’t just keep fucking lying. It’s too much. 

“I’m sorry Paul but- but I don’t think I can take it. It’s not really my thing, you know?” Michael finally says. Paul feels his hands getting clammy and he almost drops the phone in response. The words ‘just take it’ are on the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t say them. He stays silent and puts the hand he’s not holding the phone with to his head. ‘I just need you to have something to remember me by that isn’t the band’ he wants to tell him.

 

_ sorry can't save me now (sorry) _

  
  


Though his breathing feels constricted, he heaves a sigh to mask his true emotions. “That’s alright. It’s fine, I just wanted to know if you wanted it.” Then, without warning, he hangs up the phone before Michael is given the chance to respond. 

He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe he doesn’t feel strong enough to finish the conversation. Maybe he’s just a coward. In the end, it doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s got time to find something else. His expiration date is now in his own hands, and it can be pushed back a little farther to make amends with others. Just a few more weeks. 

So he calls his dad. 

Jim McCartney is not the kind of person you call to just catch up, so when he finally answers the phone, Paul is greeted with a “What’s wrong?” instead of a normal greeting. To hear such an expected response from his father almost sets Paul off into a subconsciously controlled rant as to what’s wrong with him. Instead, he takes a deep breath and smiles, pretending he’s face to face with the older man. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” He starts off with a lie, like he always does whenever he’s asked that question. “I just wanted to say hi.” His father quickly recuperates to the greeting and responds happily. “Calling to say hi? What a surprise from you, Paul.” He laughs heartily. 

Paul swallows thickly and waits for something to come to him. “I guess it is. I just figured now would be a good time to catch up.” Anxiety is still forming in his chest, and he doesn’t know why. He’s just talking to his father.

“If I’m being honest, I’m a little busy right now.” His father says, and Paul feels his stomach drop. “I’m going out with Angie and Ruth soon.”

He feels as though a weight has just been dropped in his stomach, tearing through his organs and making him feel sick. “Oh. Um, okay then.” His breathing is becoming erratic and rapid, he takes the phone away so his father doesn’t hear him. Muffled, he hears his father say something back to him. “Is there a chance I can call you some other time?” 

No, he can’t call him some other time. Paul will call him some other time, when he knows he’s not ready, he’ll call him. 

God, he’s so selfish. Everything has to be on his time. Not when his father can do it, only when he can do it. Why can’t he just stop being so self-centered all the time? He’s just  wasting others times by making them about himself. 

Why can’t he just find a better solution to fixing himself? 

  
  


_ sorry i don't know how (sorry) _

There is no solution. He’s realizing that just as he’s abruptly hanging up on his father, just as he’d done to Mike. No ‘goodbyes’. No ‘I miss you’. No ‘I love you’. He can’t even muster the courage to say he loves his own father. He’s too afraid of the response he’ll get, whether it be a return of the statement truthfully, or in his eyes, just a lie to make up for Paul’s disappointing ways. 

Somehow, the bottle of pills he’d tried to hide as soon as he got home ends up back in his hands. He’s read it so many times by now that he’s practically memorized the ingredients; and he’s only had it for a few hours. 

It falls out of his hands and rolls on the floor as he allows himself to fall limp, sliding to the floor and hugging his knees close to his chest. His mouth feels too dry but his tongue feels too heavy. He’s barely had any sleep recently, so it makes sense as to why he begins to see darkness in his vision as he sits on the kitchen floor. 

Sleep will not come to him any time soon, and it’s something he’s come to accept. The exhaustion that creeps in the corner of his eyes does not owe him anything, instead leaving him to suffer with burning eyes and a thick cloud in his head for a few minutes before he finally drags himself off the floor. 

Picking up the bottle again, he decides that he’s got to find somewhere to hide it. Linda cannot know his means of solving problems. She knows of the razor, she knows of the alcohol, but she also can easily take away both of those if she finally understands that she has the power to. 

If she doesn’t realize he has the pills, she’ll think everything is fine. She’ll believe he’s alright without the cutting, alright without drinking (but, he still needs to get his hands on that somehow, and he knows his forming alcoholism won’t upset her as much as a bloody razor will), but the pills tell a whole other story. 

Each pill will aide in his final downfall, along with the help of a drink or too, of course. 

  
  


_ sorry there's no way out (sorry) _

The pills are stored somewhere deep in the clutter of the music room; an area Linda knows not to venture in without Paul. He’s finally got a course of action to take. If things stay the way they are in the studio, he’s got no reason to change direction. 

He’s been trying to find an escape to this inexplicable dreary and dark cloud that has plagued his thoughts for a year now, even more, now that he realizes that he’s felt this way since he and John started drifting apart. There’s a strange feeling of excitement that twinges in his chest when he thinks of a world where he’s no longer facing such an internal struggle with himself. He knows a world like that will never exist for him again, so he has to deal with it the way he knows best. 

When his mother died, it took time to recuperate. But he did. He got back on his feet and became one of the most famous people of his time, and still is. If he did it perfectly fine, then so will they. 

_ but down _

They’ll be fine, right? They can live without him. It’ll be one less problem in their lives once he’s finally dug his own grave deep enough. 

_ hmm, down _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) hi, thanks for waiting for the second chapter! apologies for being busy, one of my family members just graduated and i had to write this whenever i wasn’t around them (aka late at night)
> 
> 2) speaking of writing late at night, if there are any grammatical errors such as run on sentences, my bad. im guilty of using those a lot 
> 
> 3) i don’t know if paul’s mom got him a guitar before her death. it just felt kind of significant if she would have (also did anyone else know that paul’s bothers name isn’t actually michael? apparently he pulled a paul and it’s his middle name)
> 
> 4) if u like fics like this, perhaps give a look at my amazing and talented friend @bittermacca’s works! 
> 
> 5) also, feedback certainly helps keep an author going. if you liked something or are excited for updates, please don’t be afraid to comment! i love responding to them and reading them :)


	3. call my friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW major suicidal themes in this chapter please be aware (this one has heavier content)
> 
> no harm is intended to the people i write about in this fic 
> 
> at this point, if you haven’t listened to the song, i strongly recommend you do

_call my friends and tell them that i love them_

 

There’s a voice in his head, he can’t tell if it’s actually his own mind begging him to make the call, or if it’s his own voice he hears, muffled and watery from the crying he’d just done; still is doing. Linda and Heather are out at the store, thankfully. Paul won’t be able to do it if they’re at the house, it gives him a better success rate.

 

His hands feel clammy and are shaking uncontrollably as he picks up the phone and punches in the numbers. He needs to talk. There’s still some things he needs to clear up, and after their session in the studio, he truly feels done. Unraveled. They’d found out, and though he hadn’t been planning on doing it today, he had no choice. It was now, or someone was going to try and get him the help he doesn’t need. Doesn’t deserve.

 

The phone rings a few times, and suddenly the sound of someone picking up the phone sounds through, and Paul almost cries in relief (he’s already crying, though, it would be difficult to decipher which tears were good and bad ones). “Hello?” The voice asks quickly, familiar accent loud and a little painful to hear. Paul opens his mouth to respond, to say something, but when he goes to talk every thought in his head suddenly evaporates.

 

“Hello?” The voice asks again. Finally, Paul is able to clear his throat and respond. “George! It’s me…” He knows he doesn’t even have to say his name, for the distinct roughness of his voice can probably allude to who is calling him.

 

“Hi, Paul.” George says in return, sounding slightly surprised. “Are you alright?” Of course he’d ask that instead of a normal greeting, if the events that had conspired at the studio hadn’t happened, then he’d probably have said something more normal.

 

Paul decides not to answer the question. “George,” He says again, voice cracking slightly. “You know I love you, right?”

 

It’s unexpected, for George doesn’t respond for a few more seconds. “Yeah, yeah I do. I love you too, man. What’s this about?” The sound of worry in his voice almost makes Paul wish he wasn’t going through with his plan, but there is no way out. He has to go through with it.

 

He takes a deep breath through his nose, willing himself not to cry again as he tries to speak again. Again, George’s question goes unanswered, Paul can’t bring himself to tell George anything about what is going to happen in the next hour.

 

“You’re like a brother to me, always have been.” His voice is weak, Paul doesn’t even know if George can hear him speaking. He takes the silence as a cue to continue talking. “And I just-“ he can’t get it out. His head is spinning, and his bottom lip and cheek are numb from him biting at them. “I need you to remember that. Never forget it. No matter what happens, please, please promise me you’ll never forget that.” He’s begging, the tears have returned and are streaming down his face.

 

Confirmation. All he needs is confirmation, then he can go on doing the rest of his calls. There’s a minute of silence, Paul thinks for a moment that George has just hung up and he’s standing pathetically alone in the kitchen, crying.

 

“I’m not going to forget— but, what’s going on? Can’t you answer me? Are you doing it again?” George is speaking frantically, and Paul hates him in that moment for pretending to understand the signs of him self-harming, because he’s not. He’s not doing it, and he kind of wants to, but he knows it’ll only take more time and the clock is already ticking down to the moment Linda comes home and finds him.

 

There’s a smile forming on his face, but he doesn’t know why. “No. I’m not, I’ll get better.” He lies.

 

He still can’t believe he’d let them see. He’s an idiot, fucking stupid for accidentally cutting too deep the night before. His wrist is raw from the cut he’d bandaged very precariously, and of course it had decided to start bleeding again while they were recording.

 

It still hurts from when John had grabbed his arm, asking him what he was hiding, why he was acting so secretive. The looks on their faces when they finally saw, like he was some kind of monster. Faces pale, John’s grip on his sleeve slacking and his eyes wide open only a foot in front of him. When he’d looked down, he didn’t expect to see it look so… bad.

 

A sigh on the other side of the phone call brings him out of his thoughts quickly. “You need to get better. There’s- I can’t believe we couldn’t have helped until now. Why didn’t you tell us?”

 

Getting better. Isn’t that a song from them? It’s a little ironic, considering he was the one to sing it. He is getting better. He’s putting an end to his problems. That’s getting better. “I’m getting better, George. Don’t worry, please, don’t worry.” He can’t have them fretting over him, he’s nothing to fret over. Everything is fine. It’s going to be fine. In an hours time, everything will be fixed.

 

“Okay. Okay, I believe you. I gotta go Paul, goodnight.” George says quietly, but Paul doesn’t want the conversation to end. ‘This is the last time I’m going to hear your voice. Please, please don’t hang up on me.’ The voice in his mind says, but Paul says goodnight and is the first to put the phone down.

 

The last words George say to him are goodnight. Goodnight. Certainly, it’ll be a good night for them both. Paul will finally be better. He won’t be sad anymore, won’t be suffering, and most of all, he’ll be happy where he’s going.

 

_and i’ll miss them_

 

This time, the next person he calls answers as soon as possible, as if he’d been expecting the call. Ringo’s voice is always such a contrast to George’s, but Paul doesn’t want to forget the last time he’ll ever hear the younger man’s voice, so he hopes he can make this conversation a little quicker.

 

Tears are starting to form in his eyes again, he was barely able to wipe them away last time, he doubts this conversation will make things any easier. “Hello, this is Richard Starkey speaking.” Ringo says as per usual. Paul checks the time, and thinks it’s a little late for Ringo to be so formal on the phone. “Hey, Ritchie.” Paul says, dreading the response.

 

Ringo has this tone in his voice that makes Paul think he was happy to hear from him, whether it be because he thought Paul called him to talk about what happened at the studio, or if he called him to stop himself from continuing to do it. “Paul! It’s nice to hear from you, are you doing okay?” No. No, he’s not doing okay. Well, in his mind he believes he’s fine, but by society’s standards, he was at rock bottom.

 

“Yeah, yeah I’m doing fine, actually.” He hums afterwards, biting his lip again and staring at the bottle of whiskey not even a meter in front of him. If Ringo saw him right now, what would he think? Would he see through the facade, or is Paul good at lying enough to say he’s just fine? He probably looks like a mess, he’s been crying since he locked himself alone in the music room a few hours previous, and just then migrated to the kitchen to make his last few calls when Linda left the house.

 

A relieved laugh comes through the other side of the phone. “Good, good. Hey- maybe we should-“

 

“I’m gonna miss you.” Paul can’t stop himself from saying it, internally cringing at the fact that it sounds too dramatic, too suspicious. Ringo was the one who cared the most, the first one to react in a way that didn’t show he was weirded out when he saw what Paul had been doing.

 

Before he can take it back- or even explain himself, Ringo responds with a confused tone. “What?” Paul swallows and considers hanging up the phone, but knows it’ll only make things worse. He’s got to fix things before Ringo thinks something is wrong.

 

Something is wrong.

 

“When the band is over, I mean.” Just saying those words are painful, but he won’t have to worry about the breakup if he isn’t there to experience it. “I won’t see you everyday, I’m gonna miss that, man.”

 

His last conversation with Ringo is a lie. Of course he’s going to miss him, the only one in their band that went through everything and still came out with a smile on his face. He saw everything- arguments almost turning physical, the evolution and eventual downfall of the friendships in the band; and yet, he was the only one who came in with that happy look  on his face, never burdening others with his problems and still getting through with it.

 

Paul aspires to be like him in some aspects. Ringo isn’t a burden to others. He doesn’t complain much when things go sour, he isn’t a control freak, he doesn’t ruin his own relationships by being a self-centered, self-deprecative and burdensome person. If Paul had handled himself the way Ringo does, he wouldn’t be where he is now, because he’d have no reason to hate himself, to have ruined everything he has.

 

“We’ll still see each other!” Ringo notes optimistically, but Paul can’t understand how he could be happy about that. They aren’t going to see each other. They’ll never see each other again. Fuck, was this a mistake?

 

No. He’s saying it because he feels bad for Paul. Who wouldn’t after what they had seen that day? He’s a pathetic man, they must’ve thought he was seeking attention, despite how unwilling he was to actually show them the cut that had been bleeding.

 

He hums in response, swallowing thickly and feeling his breath hitch. “Yea, yeah we will.” He has to hold the phone away so Ringo can’t hear him crying again. He’s been doing it so much that his head is beginning to hurt and his eyes are burning. When he brings the phone back to his ear, Ringo is just beginning a sentence. “Have you cleaned up your wrist at all? It did look painful.” Ringo asks. Paul can tell he’s just trying to be nice, but he doesn’t need that right now.

 

His wrist. It’s still red, raw, and a little bloody. He wasn’t feeling the urge to cut tonight, but it might just ensure that he gets it over with. Who knows how long it’ll take for the sleeping pills to kick in with the alcohol, bleeding out may be an alternative if it takes too long. Subconsciously, he looks down to the exposed skin and his eyes plan a path down his wrist, gaze acting as a superficial razor. And if he survives? Will the cutting cause damage to his nerves? The plan was to not survive, anyway.

 

“No, I haven’t cleaned it. But-“ He says before Ringo can interrupt him with his usual worried tone. “I haven’t done it again.”

 

Ringo hums on the other side of the phone. It’s a little comforting to hear that he’s actually listening, figuring that if he actually would be able to get himself out of the grave he’s already dug himself into, it would be through talking to Ringo. “Promise you’ll clean it?” Ringo asks, and Paul can’t bring himself to say yes. “I’ll do what I can.” For once, he isn’t lying. He might try to clean it up just in case he doesn’t look like he’s been cutting right before he took the pills.

 

Linda and Heather flash briefly in his mind. They have to find him. They have to see him. It wasn’t their fault, they shouldn’t have to go through the pain of finding him, but he couldn’t think of any other way of getting better. There are some prices you have to pay.

 

There’s still one last call he has to make. “Hey, Ringo, I gotta go.” He adds to his last sentence when the silence becomes too deafening. “I’m just actually gonna clean that up really quick.” He’s not going to clean it yet, or perhaps at all.

 

“That’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow then!” Then, he hangs up the phone.

 

Those words are worse than ‘goodnight’.

 

_but i’m not sorry_

 

John doesn’t answer the phone the first time Paul calls. His mouth gets dry and his stomach drops when he hears the familiar beep of a call being dropped, and places the phone down slowly. Should he keep calling until John answers, or is he not at home? He checks the time, Linda will be home soon, and there’s no way he’s going to do it with her in the house. It has to be done quickly.

 

Ringing sounds in his ear as he calls again, fumbling with his sleeve as he leans with the phone between his shoulder and head. “Come on.” He whispers, voice soft and wavering. Another ring.

 

Just as the call is about to end, someone picks up the phone with a quick “Hello.” Of course, it’s Yoko answering their phone, why wouldn’t she be the one answering the phone? She was there during the conversation, silent as ever, emotionless face contrasting the surprised and slightly sick looking expressions of the others. She wouldn’t care if he died. Then again, how much would the others?

 

“Yoko-“ He starts, clearing his throat to rid his voice of its scratchiness. He did not need to be talking to her right now, she was just his replacement. Everytime he sees her, hears her, he’s reminded that she was someone John had placed much higher on his list of importance than Paul. “Can I talk to John, please?”

 

She doesn’t say anything, and Paul takes it as a sign that she’s either contemplating whether to let him talk to John or if she’s transferring the call. Relief floods in his chest when John’s voice floods his hearing.

 

“Paul!” Is all he says. Hearing his name come out of John’s mouth makes him strangely angry and sad at the same time. It wouldn’t be the last time he says his name, but it might be the last time he hears it.

 

No words are coming to his mind. He doesn’t know what to say first.

 

Does he apologize for everything? For ruining the band, for pushing them on when they didn’t want to? Is it his fault?

 

Probably. Yet, he can’t bring himself to apologize. Why can’t he apologize for being a burden? John’s beginning to say something else, something along the lines of being happy Paul called but the latter can’t understand him through the thoughts racing in his head.

 

Finally, he knows what to say when John’s done talking. “I’m not sorry.” He states shortly and a little angrily. He instantly regrets it, knowing it’ll just escalate the situation and turn their last conversation into an argument. ‘Oh God, I’ve messed it up again’, he thinks, almost unsure if he’s said it out loud when John turns up confused.

 

“What are you on about? What’ve you got to be sorry about?” John asks incredulously, tone shifting into that if a more confused and slightly annoyed one. Paul shakes his head and growls a little. “What am I on about?! I said I’m not sorry! You fucking saw what I’ve done, what I do- and I’m not bloody sorry about it!” He hisses back in return. If he’s going to ruin it, might as well go all the way.

 

John makes a puzzled sound. “What you do?” He repeats softly. “Do you mean those cuts in your wrist? You don’t have to be sorry, mate.”

 

For some reason, he’s turning out much more sympathetic than Paul had expected. He takes another deep breath, searching for a response. He’s at least got to let John know how he feels before he goes, or else it’ll haunt him even after he’s gone.

 

“Of course I don’t have to be sorry. I’m doing it because- because you-“ He’s  stuttering and unable to find the right words to make it seem like he wasn’t putting it all on John. It wasn’t his fault after all. His shoulders sag and he sighs, raising a hand to his face and wiping at his eyes. “Nevermind.” He adds quietly, swallowing afterwards to clear his voice of the watery tone.

 

He can hear the sound of Martha walking around somewhere around the house, and it reminds him that he’s still got one girl to say goodbye to. Should he end the call now and get it over with? It’s too tempting with how the music room is conveniently just around the corner of the doorway, the area where he’d get it over with.

 

“John, I love you.” He says for the last time.

 

His last time should have been a year prior, but he can’t keep it stored back forever. He’s got one last chance to see if anything will change.

 

The older man hums on the other side of the phone, a hint of contemplation in the sound. “Okay, Paul. I don’t know what’s going on with you right now but you’ve gotta calm down or something.”

 

There’s a sudden pain that comes just after John finishes the sentence. It’s building up in his chest, tearing through his throat and building behind his eyes; and suddenly, he doesn’t realize he’s crying again until John’s repeatingly asking him to calm down. He can’t stop this time. With the other conversations, it had been simple tears, and just that.

 

Now he can’t breathe again. Why would John say it back? He didn’t love him. He doesn’t love him. Paul’s almost sure that through the last part of their relationship, he stopped loving him as well. It’s so hard to hear it set in stone, because the last time he’d said it to John, John said it right back immediately.

 

Oh, how the times have changed. The sound of John’s voice saying it is much too distant to his ears, and he can’t tell if it’s because there’s blood rushing in his ears or if it’s because it’s been so long since he’s said it.

 

“Jesus, Paul, you need to calm down, seriously.” John says again, seeming more pissed off than he had been a few seconds ago.

 

‘No, no, no’ is repeating in his mind and it won’t go away. He’s not going to calm down. He can’t. How is John even able to hear him crying over the phone? He isn’t sobbing hysterically, is he?

 

“Please,” He says through the tears, sniffling afterwards. “Just say it back. Please John, I- I need it.” He’s practically cradling the phone, waiting impatiently for John’s response. “Paul- you, you’re obviously upset. I can’t talk to you right now, you need to sort whatever is happening out with Linda.”

 

Again, he’s not given the response he wants and it feels like the last part of him that was still alive finally dies. Those words feel like poison to his still aching heart, everytime it beats it sends a new wave of pain through his veins. The weight of the situation feels like a ton of steel had just dropped down onto his head, immobilizing him and grounding him to the spot he stands at.

 

He needs to hear it one last time, but he knows John won’t deliver. “Listen, mate, I’m gonna go.” John says unhappily, shuffling around on the other end. “Please, just talk to Linda or something. She’ll help you out I bet. I don’t think talking to me is uh- the best for you right now, if you know what I mean.”

 

Before Paul can respond, John hangs up the phone. Just like that, it’s over.

 

He places the phone down, looking dejectedly at the wall while still wiping tears from his cheeks. He’s so useless. If he hadn’t overreacted than perhaps he could’ve gotten John to say it back. Of course he just had to ruin it, it seems like that’s all he’s good at anymore.

 

_call my friends and tell them that i love them_

 

Martha was sitting outside of the doorway of the kitchen, panting with her tongue out and trailing after Paul with her sweet gaze. Right now, if there’s any girl he knows will actually miss him, it’s Martha.

 

She stands up and whines, sniffing at the bottle of whiskey he has in his hand as he passes her to try and get into the music room. She follows after him, sitting down just as he stops to kneel down and pet her. Before he knows it, he’s wrapping his arms around her neck and hugging her, not caring about how much fur she is shedding onto his clothes.

 

“Promise me-” he whispers into her fur, releasing the hug. “-you’ll be a good girl for Lin and Heather? You’ll listen to them when I’m not here?” He looks into her eyes, which are quite hard to see through the mop of thick fur on her head. Martha merely pants and licks at his face. He feels a smile coming to his lips, surprisingly, though there’s a feeling of emptiness deep in his chest. “I love you.” He pets her, kisses her head, and then stands up.

 

He hears pawing at the door when he closes it behind him, feeling guilty and sick that she wants to see him again. “No, Martha. I can’t let you in.” He sighs, turning to the door to say it, hoping she hears. The pawing stops after a few seconds, and he hears the familiar thump of her laying up against the door.

 

He sits down at the piano bench, picking up the pencil he had on the top of it and the paper he’d already had ready.

 

Slowly, he begins to write.

 

‘Dear whoever finds this,’ he begins, his hands shaking and throat dry.

 

‘I’m not sorry for what I’m doing. It’s for the best, and I’m sure after dealing with me for year after year, you’d understand why I’m leaving. Please don’t blame yourselves, by leaving I’m ending the pain I’ve been in for a while. This is what’s best for me.’

 

He starts feeling the need to just crumple up the paper all together. What stops him is the memory of his mother, and how he never really got to say goodbye. His family and friends deserve at least one last goodbye.

 

The words on his paper look blurry as he writes specifically to Linda, Heather, and the rest of his family, writing about how much he loves them, and that they shouldn’t blame themselves. It’s something they’ll learn to get over.

 

_and i’ll miss them_

 

Guilt wracks in his chest as he begins a paragraph for his bandmates. They’ve already been through this, lacking a goodbye last time it happened. When their manager had committed suicide, he could still remember the embrace he shared with John, George and Ringo the next time they’d all seen each other. Hopefully they’ll still keep the same hopeful attitude as they did previously.

 

‘To George, thank you for being like a second little brother to me. You’ve made me think in a way that I never thought I’d think in, all thanks to your interest in other religions and all that. You’ve become such an amazing songwriter and singer, please never give up. I’m still rooting for you.’ He erases the ‘Hare Krishna’ he adds at the end feverishly.

 

‘To Ringo, you’ve been the most optimistic and well-rounded person I’ve ever met, and it’s infectious. I know you’re going to think that it’s your fault for not realizing it, for not doing something the moment you realized something was wrong, but don’t blame yourself. I am not able to be fixed, and you have to realize that you did all you could as an amazing friend and drummer.’

 

He stops at the last paragraph, almost contemplating not writing it all together. John said what he needed to say when he last talked to him, is there a point in continuing?  In the end, he decides he’s got a few last things he needs to get off of his chest.

 

‘Dear John, I’m sorry for being such a burden during the last year as your bandmate. You made your choice and picked her, and I should have respected that instead of continuously moping and begging you to take me back. I understand why you let me go, I’m a little annoying, and quite clingy, and I’m glad you’ve found someone much better than I was to you. I still love you, and nothing will ever change that’

 

He puts the pencil down, folds the paper up, and places it on top of the piano, where it lay alone next to the razor.

 

The razor. Should he use it?

 

The alcohol feels like a sweet relief when he finally gets into it, back against the wall of the room, pills in one hand and razor in the other. He found some other pills in the house, fearing that the one bottle he bought wouldn’t be enough.

 

None of them taste very good, and the alcohol does little to help wash them down with how many he’s taking at a time— just a few until they’re all gone. He’s pacing himself. There’s blood dripping from his right wrist, he’s barely even able to move it. He’s never seen so much blood in his life, it’s almost hypnotizing. Like a painting.

 

In an instant he begins to feel sick, like his body is realizing that it’s a mistake. Is it a mistake? He’s throwing away the perfect life he has because he’s too shit to realize he’s got people in his life that care.

 

Black gnaws at the corners of his vision, he tries to blink it away but his eyelids feel too heavy to even open back up. The lightheadedness and dizziness are still present despite his eyes being closed. He needs to lie down, but there’s blood on the floor.

 

His hearing is muffled and distorted but he can still make out the sound of a door closing somewhere else in the house, followed by the sound of Martha’s barking and someone speaking. He finally gets down in a comfortable position, His wrist hurts so bad, it’s excruciating pain, but he can feel it beginning to fade away. He’s so tired, how long will he be asleep before he finally dies?

 

Someone says something outside of the door. His name is being called, and then the door is being opened. The last thing he hears is his wife screaming and Heather crying, before he suddenly can’t stay awake long enough to listen.

 

Oh God, why had he done it?

  


_sorry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry (there will be a sequel)
> 
> (also if chapter 1’s notes are STILL SHOWING UP HERE for some reason please don’t mind them they won’t leave me alone)

**Author's Note:**

> 1) thanks for reading the first chapter of this! it took so long to write 
> 
> 2) again, i mean no harm to the people im writing about in this fic
> 
> 3) please don’t paint john or yoko as a villain. it’s sort of told from paul’s pov so things may seem slightly exaggerated, but everything that’s been said is truly the dialogue in the story 
> 
> 4) if you feel the need to self-harm or are feeling suicidal tendencies, please don’t feel afraid to contact a therapist or even a suicide hotline.
> 
> 5) second chapter may take a while to get. i have a bit of stuff to attend to even after my exams are over


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